


call it what you want

by autumnwaltz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Drinking Games, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Hogwarts AU, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, head boy jon & head girl sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnwaltz/pseuds/autumnwaltz
Summary: It dawns on her as she scans his person— messy dark curls, the scar on his left eye completely out of place at his otherwiseprettyface, Gryffindor scarf, and then down to the golden badge sitting on the left side of his chest, shiny with the capital letters H-E-A-D-B-O-Y.“You can’t be serious,” she mutters.“Serious as a heart attack, Stark,” he replies, crossing his arms. Smug as hell.Or alternatively, in which Jon and Sansa are head boy and girl. hogwarts au. drama ensues!
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 170





	call it what you want

When Luwin, the decrepit old owl who has been in the family for decades, drops red envelopes embossed with the Hogwarts sigil on their breakfast table, Sansa does not waste a second before daintily tugging hers open and perusing the contents of the letter. Three, four, five beats later, she’s screaming in giddy excitement and hugging her direwolf Lady and then her lord father and then her lady mother. Rickon continues to eat his eggs, still half asleep blearily. Arya looks at her in amusement, casually opening her letter, tossing sausages below the table where Nymeria scouts. Bran, her sweetest brother, gets up from his chair and embraces her, saying how proud he is, and she affectionately musses his hair. Robb is away on some sort of political campaign, and she reminds herself to owl him later. Pancakes have never tasted better. Her lemon tea has never tasted _sweeter.  
_

Sansa Stark has been made _head girl._

_—_

She doesn’t know who’s been made head boy but decides it doesn’t matter anyway. She opens the door to the Heads compartment with her posture perfect and her head held high, not a single hair out of place. She was about to say good morning when— 

When she _slams_ into Jon Snow. 

He lets out a resounding _oomph_ steadies her with both hands. With both _large_ hands. He looks down at her with furrowed brows and grits out, “Watch where you’re going, Stark.”

“I was watching where I was going!” she exclaims. And she is _outraged_ , really, because she _was_ watching where she was going, it’s not her fault he chose to open the door at the same time, and he should be the one who should watch it. “Why are you even here?” 

“Why do you think? This is my compartment,” he says slowly. Why does he even have a northern accent? Isn’t he some King’s Landing kid?

It dawns on her as she scans his person— messy dark curls, the scar on his left eye completely out of place at his otherwise _pretty_ face, Gryffindor scarf, and then down to the golden badge sitting on the left side of his chest, shiny with the capital letters _H-E-A-D-B-O-Y._

“You can’t be serious,” she mutters.

“Serious as a heart attack, Stark,” he replies, crossing his arms. Smug as hell.

She bites back a scream.

—

“No, absolutely _no way_ we are using _Lady_ or whatever nancy title your dog has had the misfortune to be named with, as the common room _password_ ,” he argues. 

“ _Lady,_ is a _direwolf_ ,” 

“How nice, we are still not using it though,” he doesn’t budge.

They’ve been standing in front of the portrait for almost half an hour now, arguing which password to use. The renaissance woman in the painting looks at them in half amusement and half exasperation and finally says, “you _do_ have to pick something at some point, dears.”

They ignore her. “What do you want, then, ‘ _all-hail-jon-snow’_?” she asks sarcastically.

He raises his eyebrows, and the corner of his lips twitch. _How interesting._ “Actually, you know what, that does have quite a nice ring to it,” he says, “also the first acceptable suggestion you’ve made.”

She rolls her eyes. The portrait clicks her tongue, tapping her foot impatiently. “How about ‘dark wings, dark words’?” Old Nan used to say it every day, even though they rarely use ravens anymore. 

“All right,” he exhales. At his agreement, the portrait swings open, and Sansa enters with a bounce on her steps. The common room is as large as the one in the Ravenclaw tower, with a red-carpeted floor, tall windows, heavy oak furniture. The curtains are velvet and blue, and the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor banners hang from the ceiling at the center of the room. For the first time in six years, she has the dorm all to _herself_. Which she deserves. For all her hard work. 

“Oh, this will do quite well,” she says softly to herself. She turns to go check on her room and feels a rough palm encircling her wrist. 

“Wait, Stark,” 

She stops. His touch _burns_. “What?”

“We have to share a bathroom too. So I’d prefer it if you don’t hog it every morning,” he says. 

“You should wake up earlier than me, then,” she shakes off his wrists and walks away. 

—

Jon Snow is _infuriating_. 

He’s quiet and broody except when he’s a veritable spitfire of patronizing remarks, complaining about her leaving her shoes on the floor _again,_ about the lemon cake crumbs on the common room table she’s forgotten to scourgify _again,_ about how she’s hogging the shower _again_ , _yada yada yada_ . She has learned how to tune him out, because _honestly_ , he’s even worse than her lady mother, and soon enough her eyeballs are gonna pop out of its sockets from rolling them too hard and fall down on the floor, leaving goo all over. He’ll gripe about it endlessly, too. 

He is infuriating, it’s true, but he’s also got nice hair. 

“And are you even listening to me?” he bleats. 

She snaps her eyes down into his and drawls, “hard not to, not when the entire castle could hear you.”

He looks like he’s about to throw his hands up in frustration but chooses to sigh dramatically, “Stark...”

“I told you, I’m listening,” she repeats, now getting annoyed too. 

“From my perspective, you were too absorbed staring at my hair,” he replies. 

“What— I was not!” she sputters. 

“Right,” he mutters as he picks up a quill and continues scribbling down notes. “If you were listening, what was the last thing I said?”

She rolls her eyes and flips her hair, “something about the Prefect Patrols,”

He studies at her for an unnervingly long time before looking down at his parchment again, “Yes,” his broad northern accent rolling across his tongue, “we have got to do head patrols together every other week and call for a Prefects meeting next week to—”

“To plan for the Yule Ball, yes, I told you I was paying attention,” she interrupts smugly.

“To plan for the _Halloween Dance,_ ” he clarifies, “Ser Davos told me earlier they’re canceling the Yule Ball,”

“Oh,” 

“ _Oh_ ,” he mimics. 

She crosses her arms and leans back against the sofa, “Fine then, leave it to me, because unlike _some people_ , I’m actually equipped on how to handle social occasions such as this one,” she said. 

“Fine then,” he grumbles. 

“Is there any more to talk about?” she asks snootily, arching her brow. He looks like he’s about to say something else but instead settles with a quiet, “no, that’s all.”

—

After a tiring prefect’s meeting, Harrold Hardying runs up to her and flashes her a cocky smile, “Hey, Sansa.” 

“Hello, Harry,” she smiles back. For what is a lady without her courtesy?

He runs a hand across his sandy blonde hair and gently lays a hand on her forearm. “I was just wondering... if you’d like to go to Hogsmeade with me,” he says. 

She blinks. He _is_ handsome enough, she supposes. The heir to the Arryn fortune, and her father always spoke well of the Eyrie. It can’t hurt giving him a chance, can it?

“I’d love to,” she replies. His eyes twinkle in satisfaction. Oh, he is _cute._

“Great! See you, then,” and without asking he pecks her on the cheek and bounds off, leaving her staring at his back in amazement. 

—

They don’t usually talk during patrols. When they do they always end up arguing anyway, so it’s better that way. The night air is cold and she suppresses a shiver. In her hurry not to be late, she forgot her cloak and her wand back at the common room. Their footsteps echo across the stone floors, and she could hear Peeves singing gleefully ten classrooms away. 

Suddenly she feels a bubble of warm air wash over her and snaps her head to her left. She catches Snow pocketing his wand, and murmurs her thanks. 

“Next time, don’t forget your cloak. And your scarf,” he sermons. “And _your wand_.”

She sighs loudly, “yes, _father_.”

“And seriously? Hardyng?” his tone incredulous. 

“What’s wrong with him?” she retorts.

“He’s an ass,” he says. “And he has _dimples_.”

“Well, I like his dimples well enough,” she replies. “Why the sudden interest, anyway?”

“I’m not, I was just forced to witness his embarrassing display of asking you out earlier,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “You should have just closed your eyes, Snow. Stop complaining about everything,”

“I don’t complain about _everything_ ,” he denies. “But when it is an _affront_ to my person, of course I’m gonna say something,” he continues. 

“And how is Harry asking me out offensive to you?” she snaps.

“It’s offensive because I _cannot_ stand the guy, and he tried to jinx my broom once,” he frowns. “If he suddenly starts hanging around the common room it would be _torture_ to me—”

“That’s one more reason for me to go out with him, then,” she smiles sweetly. As they round up to the next corridor, they hear moaning sounds. She groans inwardly. _This is the worst part of patrols._ There’s a couple engrossed in a heavy snog, and she can see the boy’s hand up the girl’s skirt. 

Snow clears his throat uncomfortably, gazes at her for a moment and says loudly, “It’s past curfew, I’m taking 15 points from Slytherin and Hufflepuff, and I expect you two to go back to your respective dorms immediately,” his authoritative voice sounds intimidating when he tries. “ _Now_.” Both scatter rather quickly at that. 

They continue walking in silence until they reach their tower. “You’re good at that, you know,” she says.

“At what?” he says roughly.

“Chastising people,” 

“Hilarious, Stark,” he says the password and trudges up to his room so fast it’s almost like he’s desperate to get away from her.

He’s so odd sometimes. 

—

_Thump. Thump. Thump._ “Stark!” _Thump._ “Stop hogging the bathroom!” _Thump._ “I have class in ten minutes!” 

“I got here first!” she yells back.

He keeps on banging his fist against the door. “Stark! You’re making me late!” 

She violently opens the door, clutching the towel on her chest. Her hair is wet and dripping down her back. He takes a step back and freezes, staring at her in shock. “It’s your fault for not waking up earlier,” she glares. His eyes scan her, intensely moving up and down. He inhales. Exhales. He hurries past her inside the loo and slams the door. _Rude_. Did he even hear a word of what she said?

—

Potions class is her favorite. She loves the classroom in the dungeons, loves the challenge of following instructions from word to word to achieve the perfect results. And Sansa has always been a rule follower— she grew up doing everything her mother told her— straighten her back, elbows off the table, curtsy like a princess, how to dress, how to move. Because she’s a _good girl_ , and she likes being that way. So when Professor Umber pairs her with Jon Snow, she has to remind herself that she _cannot_ stomp her foot. It’s like she literally cannot escape him every day. 

They’re brewing a wound-cleaning potion, because the infirmary is in short supply. He’s agreed to chop off the ingredients while she handles the cauldron. He’s silent, and refuses to look at her the entire time. When she asks for him to hand over the minced valerian root and a tiny vial of asphodel extract, his fingers brush against hers. She applies the last two drops of asphodel, and slowly stirs the potion counter-clockwise, and then clockwise. It successfully turns into the exact recommended hue of deep violet, and she looks up and beams at Snow, pleased they’re done and well ahead of the rest of the class. He is taken aback at her abrupt change in demeanor, and his eyes soften and the tip of his ears flush pink. 

“Ah, Mister Snow and Miss Stark are finished! And with the perfect shade! You know, it feels like I have been sent back into time, you two look very much like Ned and Cat come again!” Umber roars. The class looks at them inquisitively, and now she’s blushing too. 

—

The weeks pass uneventfully. Sometimes Hardyng walks her to her classes, sometimes he’s off in his own circle of friends and legion of fangirls. She doesn’t mind, she has more important things to worry about. Her brother Robb was so pleased with her being head girl that he sent her a TV and a set of DVD’s as gifts, enchanted so it would work in a magical setting. She sets it up in the common room, because the couch in there is so much more comfy. Earlier she went to the kitchens to ask for a plate of lemon cakes, which the elves are more than happy to give. Now she’s sitting wrapped in a heavy blanket, tea and lemon cakes on the table. Her classes have been gruelling and it’s her time to _relax._

As she lazily flicks her wand to put Clueless on, the portrait swings open and Jon Snow enters. 

“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously. 

“It’s a television,” she says like it explains everything. Other than the interactions their shared classes required them, he has been avoiding her like the plague. He wakes up hours before her, and goes back to the common room hours after dinner. She tells herself she really couldn't care less, but to be honest she is at least a _bit_ curious what’s it about. She’s got lemon cakes, she’s in a good mood, and she’s feeling _amiable_ , so she says, “Come on, you can watch it with me, and there’s extra tea.” She pats the spot next to her. 

He’s contemplative for five seconds before giving in and carefully sitting down an arm away from her. The movie starts, and the intro music fills the room. “It’s like a portrait, but longer,” he observes. 

“Yes,” she looks at him. “You’ve never seen a movie before?” 

“No. My family aren’t exactly what you’d call _contemporary_ ,” he sips his tea. “This is too sweet,” he frowns. 

“Can you feel your dark, brooding soul churning away?” she half-smiles and takes another bite of lemon cakes. “Plus, the elves make _excellent_ lemon cakes, you should try it,” she insists, shoving a plate towards him. He raises a brow and takes a tiny piece of cake, and she waits for his reaction. He hums. She’s pleased. 

“It’s good,” he admits. 

“ _Please_ , it’s the _best_ ,” she says. “Lemon cakes are my favorite.”

He chuckles, and his gaze is gentle. “I know, Stark.”

“Why do you never call me Sansa?” she asks, refilling her tea. “Everyone else calls me Sansa.”

Suddenly his fingers take the wayward lock of hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. Her eyes follow his hand and then meet his. He’s taken aback like he can’t believe he just did that. He studies his teacup with utmost concentration.

“Jon?” his eyes snap towards her. “I just asked you a question,” she says. 

He stares at her intently. “Do you want me to call you Sansa?” he says hoarsely. Like he’s out of breath. 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she says, her voice soft.

“All right then,” he pauses. “ _Sansa.”_

“It wasn’t that hard, was it?” she grins. “And you’ve been avoiding me, too,” she adds. “It’s weird.”

He clears his throat, looking at anywhere but her, “I’ve just been busy,”

She hums and pays attention to the movie once again, snuggling in her comforter. 

—

She barely registers him moving her horizontally, laying a pillow below her head. She feels a pair of lips brushing her forehead and recognizes the smell of leather and smoke. She hears a door gingerly click shut. She clutches at her blanket and falls back to sleep. 

—

Harry Hardyng hasn’t stopped talking about himself for the past hour. She smiles and nods at the opportune moments and giggles when it’s time to laugh, but she’s very close to yawning, and she forces herself to down her tea instead. They are at Madame Puddifoot's, where the entire shop looks like a pink fairy threw up pink vomit everywhere, that even the cutlery is horridly _pink._ They are sitting by the glass front exterior, which has been drawn with pink hearts that are charmed to bounce continuously, and she could see other Hogwarts students strolling through the streets. 

She sees Jon Snow walking with Satin and Sam Tarly. When he passes by her, he lifts a brow and nods in acknowledgment. Heat creeps up her face, and she looks back at Harry, who hasn’t noticed anything, thank the gods. 

“— and how is your brother Robb?” 

“Oh, um. He’s very well, actually. He took over father’s Wizengamot seat and has been busy with work since,” she replies. 

They continue talking, with her only giving half distracted answers. When they finally got up, and he insisted on paying the bill, she tells Hardying she has had a good time, but she has errands to do (actually she doesn’t).

—

Sansa has many secrets but at the top of those is a compilation of moments of just Jon Snow staring at her when he thinks she’s unaware. No one else knows about it, she hasn’t even told Arya or even _Jeyne_ , because that secret is _hers_ and hers alone, and she is possessive about it. 

There is something torrid in the way that he looks at her, that she would give anything to have the chance to slice his head open so she could see his thoughts. Sometimes his gaze is lurid, and other times it’s gentle. Thinking about it gives her a thrill and an odd sensation at the pit of her stomach. 

No one’s ever made her feel this way. 

—

On her way back to Hogwarts, she sees her sister Arya and her posse of weird friends sitting on the ground behind one of the trees. She narrows her eyes as they move from the tall good looking guy who remarkably looks like the celebrity Renly Baratheon, to the boy she remembers everyone calls Hotcake, and then to the skinny one who sometimes carries an arrow and a bow behind his back. They are laughing like they had just committed a crime, which, knowing Arya, they probably _did_ . So she stalks up to them and witnesses them passing around a bottle of _firewhiskey_. 

“Arya! What are you doing!” she shrieks. 

“Drinking,” Arya giggles. Her friends guffaw like it’s the funniest thing they ever heard. 

She sighs and snatches the bottle, which turns out to be enchanted to be bottomless. She shrinks it and stows it in her bag, and then forces them to get up and walk to the carriage with her. She _is_ the head girl, but she’s a sister first. 

“Arya… I will let it slide this time. But this is your OWL’s year, and you should be studying,” she chastises. “If I catch you another time, I’m writing to our parents.”

Arya nods as if in a daze. Sansa bites back another sigh. It’s going to be difficult leading them up to the Gryffindor tower.

—

“This is the first time I’ve seen you do homework here,” she observes as she collapses on the first sofa, she sees as soon as she stepped in the Heads dorms. Which was where _he_ sits. But nevermind. Her arms are sore from practically _carrying_ her sister up to her dorms, and she just wants to _rest._

“The library is too full of loud fifth years,” he mutters, “I’m almost done though.” He looks up from his parchment, a frown marring his face. “Are you all right?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes... just tired. Big sister duties and all that,” she bemoans dramatically. Suddenly she perks up. “Actually, you know what,” she murmurs conspiratorially.

He raises an eyebrow in interest. 

“I confiscated a bottle of a bottomless firewhiskey,” she smirks. She pulls it out of her handbag, expands it to its original size, and waves it around like a prize. She uncaps the bottle, throws her head back as she takes a swig, and then dissolves into a fit of coughs. He sighs, and moves closer to pat her back. “Woah,” she rasps. “That’s strong.”

“It’s called _fire_ whiskey for a reason, Sansa,”

For some reason, she decides to settle down on the floor, sitting Indian-style. 

“Well I know that now,” she thrusts the bottle in his direction. “Care to join me?”

He looks positively confounded for a moment, then quickly recuperates and flicks his wand to tidy his work away. He follows suit on the floor. As the parchment folds itself and the ink and quill float up to his room, his attention returns to her, grey eyes flashing in provocation. 

He accepts the bottle and takes a big gulp, eyeing her the entire time. He hands it back to her. 

She brings the bottle to her lips. Jon keeps peering at her with a strange expression. In between fascination and downright obscenity. “Do you know the game truth or dare?” she says. 

He chuckles, “Contrary to what you might think, I do have fun sometimes.” 

Her eyes widen in mock disbelief, “Well. Could have fooled me.” He looks at her in exasperation.

The whiskey burns through her throat down to her stomach, and she’s starting to feel _warm_. She’s entranced by the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Okay, but let’s take the dare out,” she declares. 

“Fine then,” he passes the bottle back to her. 

She takes a tiny sip. “I’ll start. What’s your favorite color?” 

“Favorite _color_? What are you, _twelve?_ ” he snickers. 

She glares at him, “Just answer it,”

“Hmmm. Blue,” he says. Looking at her in the eyes. She hands him back the bottle, and his hand lingers against hers. 

“My turn,” he gulps it hastily. “What’s _your_ favorite color?”

“Stark grey,” she answers readily. “It’s the color of my house. What’s the story behind that scar on your eye?”

“Oh this? An eagle attacked me,” 

“An eagle? Oh that’s rich,” she giggles. “Why would an eagle attack you?” 

“Suffice it to say it didn’t like me,” he says. 

“I didn’t like you at first either,” her loose tongue acting up. “Because you were so… so broody and uptight!” she’s still giggling. “I like you now, though.”

He leans in closer, cracking a grin. “Oh, do you now?” 

“Shut up,” she says, “you know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he takes another swig. “All right, who’s your favorite sibling?”

“Jon! You can’t just make me choose between them,” she shrieks. 

“Ow, woman. My _ears,_ ” 

She rolls her eyes. “Ask me something else,”

“Who do you think is the most attractive guy at Hogwarts?” he says.

“Harry Hardyng,” she deadpans. 

He stares at her in shock. “You’re kidding,”

“No, I’m not,”

“No way… there is _no way_ you actually think that,” he insists. 

Her lips twitch, “You just want me to say it’s you,”

“You wouldn’t be _wrong_ if you do,” he answers. 

“Well I’m not gonna say it and feed on your already disproportionate ego,” she says. “I’m gonna have to settle with… Loras Tyrell.”

“How predictable,” he mutters, obviously miffed. 

“Don’t worry,” she pats his head, “you’re quite handsome too.” 

He rolls his eyes. 

“My turn!” she claims excitedly. “Where do you get your northern accent from?”

“I visit my great-great uncle at the Wall every summer,” he says. “He’s my favorite. Well, aside from my sister.” He takes a swig. “When was the last time you lied?” 

She grins, “A few minutes ago,” she pauses, thumbing the bottle in contemplation. “Have you... ever been in love?” 

He leans in dangerously close. “I haven’t. Have you?”

His scent clouds her senses, and it’s _criminal_ , really, because he’s _everywhere_ and she cannot breathe, or _think._ “I don’t know,” she whispers. 

“I’m getting on your nerves, am I?” he says, looking smug. 

“The rule is we only ask one question at a time,” 

“Just admit it, Stark,” his eyes laughing. “And maybe I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What secret?” she breathes. She can hear the ancient wall clock in the common room ticking, loud and clear.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“I think you’re fucking gorgeous, that’s what,” he says in a low tone. “Remember that time you walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel?” 

She nods, dazed.

“Well. I couldn’t stop thinking about you ever since,” he tells her. " _Fuck_ , Sansa, everything you do is so cute it's painful." And she’s suddenly overly aware of the distance between them, or the lack thereof. He’s still leaning over her, both her thighs between his legs. She’s essentially trapped between his chest and the couch behind her. She finds that she doesn’t mind it one bit. 

“It’s my turn now,” she whispers. “I dare you to kiss me.”

And he does. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! tell me what you think should happen next and i will love you forever. also, some scenes on this are inspired by the fic chronicles by josephinee!


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